Part 17

“It wasn’t long till there was heaps of trouble on the range. A tenderfoot would file on a claim, prove up, and as soon as he got his papers a big sheep outfit would own the land--you know how they do. Pretty soon the big sheepmen began to fence the water-holes, claim or no claim, and hell broke loose. After considerable killin’ and burnin’ and layin’ for each other, they patched up a peace; the sheepmen that didn’t get killed off stayed on the creeks where they was settled, and the cow outfits held what was left of the open range.

“That was where old Hartley got in his work. He had a bunch of sheep, and stay where he belonged he wouldn’t. He’d slip out on good grass and fence up a spring or little lake that might be waterin’ a thousand head of cattle. If a bunch of cows come in to water, he’d sic his dogs on ’em till they’d quit the earth. If a round-up swung his way he’d knock down his fence and move out. It was a big country and hard to watch, but they caught him once or twice, and drove him back where he belonged. They give him all the show in the world to be on the square, but he wouldn’t--he wasn’t built that way. He swore ‘by God’ that he had as much right to drive his blatin’, stinkin’ woolly-backs all over the range as the cowmen had to turn their longhorns loose on the country. He was a big, burly, noisy-mouthed cuss, with the muscle of a pack-mule and the soul of a prairie-dog. He was game, for all his low-down ways, but he went up against the cowmen once too often; a round-up headed him north one day with his sheep and a camp-wagon, and sent a couple of riders along to see that he kept a-goin’. Then they swung around to his home ranch and made a bonfire of it, to show the rest of the ca-na-na’s that there’d be no monkey business on the Hash-Knife range.

“I didn’t see nor hear of him no more till that fall. Then the layout I was workin’ for bought a bunch of cattle over here and sent me to rep for ’em--same as I’m doin’ now. I was huntin’ for the Big Four wagon, which was supposed to be workin’ on the upper part of the White Mud, when I struck his trail. Comin’ north along the creek one day I turned a bend and come on a fellow talkin’ to a girl. It was Stella Hartley. I met her once at a dance on Powder River, and I knowed her the minute I laid eyes on her. She was about as nice a little girl as ever struck Custer County.

“I rode up and says ‘Howdy’ to her, and then I see it was Bobby Collins she was talkin’ to. I knew him, too--one of the whitest boys on earth, and the swiftest woddy that ever turned a cow. ‘Hash-Knife Bob’ they called him, over in Custer.

“‘M’ son,’ says I, ‘I’m sure glad to see you. But how’d you come to stray off into this wilderness?’

“He told me, then, the whole deal, Stella sittin’ on her horse tryin’ to smile, though she was nearer cryin’ than anything else; she’d been sheddin’ tears pretty considerable, as it was. Away along in the winter Stella ’d promised to marry him, but when the old man got to hear of it he just tore up the earth and swore he’d rather see her dead than married to a cowpuncher. Hash-Knife was for tellin’ him to go to the devil and gettin’ married anyway, but Stella wouldn’t have it that way. His wife bein’ dead, she was the only womankind the old man had, and she couldn’t bear to leave him like that. She said to wait awhile and the old man would come around. So in the spring Bob goes to the head of Powder River, and while he was gone the cow outfits put the run on the old man. When Hash-Knife comes back, Stella and the whole Hartley outfit had vanished plum off the earth.

“But Hash-Knife Bob was no quitter. He followed ’em up and located ’em on Milk River. Then he got a job with the Big Four, so’s to be near the girl. He had it figured out that when round-up was over that fall he’d take up a ranch on Milk River, marry Stella, and settle down. But he hadn’t more’n made his plan when old man Hartley breaks out in a fresh place.

“As I said before, old Hartley was a bull-headed old bucko. He was worse’n that; he was pig-headed and sheep-headed; he had the contrary stubbornness of all the no-account animals on God’s green earth. You’d ’a’ thought he’d ’a’ taken a tumble to himself after livin’ so long in a sagebrush country, and ’specially after bein’ run out of one part of it. But, no, sir! his way was _the_ way. He wasn’t content on Milk River--he wanted a whole blamed county to graze over. So he went pokin’ around on the north side, and stumbled onto the Crossin’ here. It looked good to him, and without sayin’ a word to anybody but his herder--who was a knot-head like himself and crazy after Stella--he picks up his traps and sashays in here.

“There was probably seven or eight big cow outfits rangin’ east of the White Mud then, and they’d just got through havin’ a scrap with the sheep-wranglers, alongside of which the fuss in Custer County was about knee-high. Both of ’em had lots of men and money, but the advantage was on the cowmen’s side, for their boys was fightin’ for their livin’, for outfits they’d been raised with, and the sheepherders was in it for coin and because they didn’t know any better. Anyway, the sheepmen backed off after awhile and made peace--said they’d be good, they’d had enough. The cowmen made the White Mud the dead line; there was to be no sheep-camps on the creek or east of it. And the cowpunchers rode the high pinnacles to see that no sheep crossed the line.

“This here, Hash-Knife explained to me, was the way things stood: Hartley was located on the Crossin’ with a bunch of sheep--about twenty-five hundred head. He’d built him a cabin, and had likewise strung a four-strand barb-wire fence across the coulée that led down to the flat. And he was goin’ to stay there, he said. He had a squatter’s right, and if he wanted to live there and fence his place he’d do it. It was government land, and to hell with the cow outfits! He was from Missouri, he was! And up on the bench, about six or seven miles back, the Big Four and the Ragged H was swingin’ up to the Crossin’ with a beef herd apiece, and the wagon-bosses was mad, for they’d heard of old man Hartley.

“‘Old “Peek-a-Boo” Johnson’s runnin’ the Big Four,’ Hash-Knife told me. ‘I got him to let me ride ahead and see if I couldn’t talk some sense into the old man. But it’s no go. He’s got his neck bowed, and he’s fool ’nough to try and run a whizzer on Peek-a-Boo’s riders; they’ll clean him out if he does. I saw Stella ride off as I was comin’ down to the ranch, and when I got through with him I rambled down this way and found her. I want her to stay away from the flat for two or three hours, till the thing is settled one way or the other, but she’s bound to go home. So I guess we’d better be goin’. The wagons ought to hit the Crossin’ pretty soon.’

“We went up on the bench. Stella and Hash-Knife and me, and loped along toward the Crossin’. Pretty soon we could see the two sets of wagons and a bunch of riders headin’ for the creek, the two herds--big ones--trailin’ along behind, about a mile apart. At the head of the coulée I turned my string loose for the horse-wrangler to pick up. With Stella cryin’ and Hash-Knife tryin’ to comfort her, we swung down the coulée to the shack.

“When we got there we found the herder had brought the sheep in to water. They’d moved back off water and was bedded down, bunched close, about half-way between the cabin and the creek. There was three of ’em at the cabin; old Hartley, the herder, and a pilgrim that’d come out to work on the ranch.

“Old Hartley looked pretty black at us as we rode up, but he didn’t have time to say much before the wagons come rollin’ out the mouth of the coulée. They was almost at the house before he knowed it. Then he ducked into the cabin and come out with a Winchester across his arm. The outfit went past without battin’ an eye at him. They went round the sheep and started to pitch camp on the creek-bank. Then Peek-a-Boo and Tom Jordan, the Ragged H boss, come a-ridin’ up to the cabin.

“They was nice and polite about it. They told old Hartley that seein’ he was a stranger they thought he’d probably made a mistake and got over on the wrong side of the ridge. They didn’t want to make any trouble for him, but he’d have to take his sheep off the creek. Sorry to bother him, but it was range law.

“‘You can’t bluff _me_,’ says Hartley. ‘This here’s government land. I got as much right here as anybody. You dassent run me out.’

“Then old Tom Jordan tells him about the big scrap they’d had with the sheepmen, and how they’d agreed to stay the other side of the ridge, but the old bonehead kept a-shootin’ off about his rights, and how they couldn’t bluff _him_, till Tom got mad and rode off, sayin’ that he’d see his blasted sheep was across the ridge by sundown.

“Peek-a-Boo stayed talkin’ to him, tryin’ to persuade him to be reasonable, and showin’ him how foolish he was to run up against the cowmen after they’d fought a dozen big sheep outfits to a standstill and whacked up the range fair and square. They talked and talked, old Hartley gettin’ more and more on the peck. Neither of ’em noticed that the lead of the first herd had strung down the coulée--the cowpunchers had done business with the fence. There was probably a thousand head of big, rollicky steers bunched on the flat, and the rest of the herd was pourin’ out the mouth of the draw. Two point-riders was holdin’ ’em up so they wouldn’t scatter.

“Old Hartley saw ’em first. The sight of that big bunch of longhorns on what he called his land made him see red, I reckon. He shoved the lever of his gun forward and back, clickity-click, and started on a run for the bunch, hollerin’ as he went: ‘You can’t drive them cattle across my flat! I’ll kill you, by God, if you do!’

“Peek-a-Boo stuck the spurs in his horse, and started after him, callin’ to him to keep away from the herd. Hartley kept a-goin’ till Peek was about twenty feet from him, then he whirled with his gun to his shoulder, and cut loose, bang--bang! and Peek-a-Boo tumbled off his horse.

“Things happened then. Stella had started after the old man, but Hash-Knife grabbed her and made her stop. When old Hartley dropped Peek-a-Boo, Bob says to me: ‘Mormon, take Stella over to camp. I got to get Peek out of there. Maybe he aint killed, and them steers’ll be a-runnin’ over him in about ten seconds.’

“Hash-Knife had the situation sized up correct. I helped Stella onto her horse and started for the wagons. A lot of riders come like hell across the flat toward the herd, but they was too late to do any good. Just as Hash-Knife picked old Peek-a-Boo up and flopped him across his horse, Hartley begin to smoke up the two riders that was holdin’ the herd--which was bunched tight, ready to run. But he missed first shot, and when he fired the second time they was scuddin’ for the tail-end of the herd, layin’ low along the backs of their horses. As they run they jerked the slickers off the backs of their saddles, swingin’ ’em round their heads, and, yellin’ like Gros Ventre braves strikin’ the war-post, they rode into the herd.

“When them cattle surged first one way and then the other, and then swept across the flat, tramplin’ old Hartley down like he was a lone stalk of bunch-grass stickin’ up out of the prairie, Stella screeched and hid her face in her hands. But I watched; it was horrible and fascinatin’. You’ve seen the ice gorge in the Big Muddy, when it breaks up in the spring; it jams at some narrow place and piles up and piles up till the river below is bone dry. Then the weight of the water’ll bust the jam and there’ll be a grindin’, smashin’ uproar for a minute, and all of a sudden the river is flowin’ peaceful again.

“That was the way them cattle did. They passed over old Hartley like he was nothin’, and struck that bunch of slumberin’ sheep like a breakin’ ice jam. Two thousand strong they was, runnin’ like scared antelope, packed shoulder to shoulder, with horns and hoofs clatterin’ like a Spanish dancer’s castanets, and the gallopin’ weight of ’em made the flat tremble. This wise they passed over the band of sheep, wipin’ ’em out like the spring floods wipe out the snow in the low places, and thunderin’ by the round-up camp hit the creek with a rush that knocked it dry for a hundred yards. The lead of ’em had hardly got to the level before the riders was turnin’ ’em. In fifteen minutes them cattle was standin’ bunched on the flat, puffin’ and blowin’, the big steers starin’ round as if they were wonderin’ what had scared ’em. But they’d done the trick. There was no sheep left to quarrel over--nary one. It was an Alamo for the woolly-backs!

“After we’d found and buried what was left of old man Hartley, we moved up the creek to camp. The herder and the pilgrim hit the trail for Milk River. Poor little Stella sure felt bad on account of the old man, and the boys was all sorry for her. But she had Hash-Knife, and Peek-a-Boo--who wasn’t hurt bad enough to make him cash in--said he’d brand a hundred calves for her on the spring round-up. So I guess she was winner on the deal.

“That’s been eleven years,” Mormon Jack concluded, reminiscently, “and I aint been here since. I didn’t make no protracted visit the first time, but I want to tell you, m’ son, it was sure excitin’.”

THE COLONEL AND “THE LADY”

By Kathleen Thompson

About an hour before sunset, Colonel Jerry rode furiously into the post. Her sweating pony was streaked with dust, and the colonel was covered with it from head to foot. Except for the rumpled and brief little corduroy skirt and bloomers, her clothing was an exact, if miniature, copy of her father’s. Her wide felt hat had its regulation cord and tassels, there were gauntlets on her small hands, and gaiters on her small legs. The sleeve of her boyish skirt carried its device, and she wore a cartridge belt, a little pistol, and a sword.

She drew her dancing pony sharply up before the group on the porch, and saluted severely.

“And just in time, too!” said the major, who was also the colonel’s father. He looked at her reproachfully. “We were about to send a company out after you! Leave Baby at the side door and go straight upstairs. When you’re presentable come down, and I’ll introduce you to your Boston uncle and aunt. We’ve been watching for you all afternoon. What kept you, you vagabond?”

The colonel, trying to quiet her nervous horse, wheeled about in a manner that made her aunt dizzy. She answered, jerkily: “Trouble, sir--on the reservation! Whoa, there, pretty! Quiet, girl! It seems that--it seems that some of those hogs of Indians got hold--steady, old girl!--got hold of a keg of whisky--somewhere--and--Peters said--hold still, you fool! You’ll have your oats in a minute!--Peters said--that last night--there wasn’t a man in the camp that wasn’t drunk! You will have to excuse me, sir! She’s pulling my arms out!” And she gave her horse its head.

When the two had flashed around the corner of the house, the major smiled, proudly. “What d’ye think of her?” he said, turning to his brother-in-law.

“Well, for a nine-year-old,” said Dr. Eyre, slowly, “she is certainly a wonder!”

The doctor’s wife, a pretty, precise little woman, looked at her own neat little girl, and sighed, profoundly.

“And _this--this_!” she said, plaintively, “is poor Amy’s child!”

The major looked a trifle uncomfortable, but his young aid spoke, eagerly: “Every one on the post is proud of the colonel! You see, we’ve brought her up here among us, Mrs. Eyre--taught her everything she knows! You can’t take in her good points at a glance--but she’s as square as any man!”

When the little girl presently joined them, her dark hair had been smoothly brushed, her white frock and buckled slippers were irreproachable. She gave a cool and impassive little cheek to her aunt’s kisses, and then, from her father’s knee, soberly studied her kinspeople.

“How like Amy!” said Mrs. Eyre. “You don’t remember poor dear mamma, do you, Geraldine?”

“I was two,” said the colonel. The aid choked.

“Yes--yes--of course!” said Mrs. Eyre. “And she has had no training, has she, Jim? Do you know, darling, that where aunty and cousin Rose live they would think you were a very funny little girl if they heard you talk that way?”

“What way, dad?” said the colonel, quickly.

“And to hear you say what you said this afternoon,” pursued her aunt, calmly.

“To your horse, she means,” supplemented her father, smiling down at her.

“But that horse can act like the Old Harry,” said the colonel, musingly.

“Speaking of horses,” her uncle said, a little hurriedly, “you’ve never seen mine, have you?”

She gave him an eager smile. “No, sir. You know I’ve never been East. But I’ve read about her. I’m very much interested in that horse.”

“Well, after dinner, suppose you and I have a look at her?”

“_What!_” The colonel was on her feet; “she’s not _here_!”

“Yes. Came with us to-day. She’s entered for the Towerton Cup.”

The colonel’s pale little face was flushed with excitement.

“You don’t mean The Lady, Uncle Bob? Not the horse that has taken all those prizes? Here on _this post_?”

“That’s the very one, colonel,” said the major; “we put her in the Ralston stable.”

“The Lady!” said the colonel, dazedly. “The Lady! To think I shall see that horse!”

“Aunts and uncles are nothing to horses,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“Well,” said the colonel, “you know every one has aunts and uncles.” The aid grew crimson again. “But this is the only racer that I know. And you’ve put her in the Ralston stable?”

“For quiet,” her uncle said. “It excites her to be in a stable with other horses.”

“And one thing more, colonel,” said her father, firmly; “which you may as well understand right _now_. You’re not ever, under any circumstances, to mount that horse.”

“All right, sir,” said the colonel, regretfully. “If you say so, that goes. But I’d like to try her.”

Her father gave her a sidelong look.

“Now see here, Jerry. The minute I catch you on top of that horse, you can go to bed without rations, and you needn’t wear your colors for a week after. Understand?”

The colonel nodded. Her face was crimson.

“Hang it, you’re not _my_ superior officer, Jim,” said his brother, smiling, “and if I choose to give my niece a ride or so on my own horse it strikes me----”

“Ah! that’s a different matter,” agreed the major, “only I didn’t want the colonel here to think The Lady was an ordinary riding horse.”

The colonel said nothing. She was, at times, an oddly silent child. But she smiled at her uncle, and loved him at once.

It was almost sunset. Long, clear-cut shadows fell across the clean-swept parade. The watering-cart rumbled to and fro, leaving a sweet odor of fresh, wet earth. Lawn-sprinklers began to whirr in the gardens of Officers’ Row. Chattering groups went by, the level red light flashing on white parasols and brass buttons. All of these strollers shouted greetings to the major and the little colonel. Some came up, and were duly presented to the major’s guests. Jerry sat on the steps, her little dark head against the rail, and exchanged banter with a degree of equality that astonished her aunt. The child’s heart was full. She was to be, for several days, privileged by the sight of the great horse--a week would bring the Fourth of July, with its bands and picnic and evening of unclouded joys, fireworks, ice-cream, bonfires. Besides this, the old general, her especial crony, would arrive in a few days for the holiday.

Dinner was late and long. And the after-dinner cigars were interrupted by many reminiscences. By the time the men reached the porch again, the colonel’s patience was sorely strained. She sat waiting for a long half-hour.

“Uncle Bob,” she began at last, when there was a pause, “are you going to see The Lady to-night?”

“By George, that is so,” said her uncle, rousing. “We must have a look at the old girl. Come, kids.”

Just then the breeze brought them the bugle notes.

“Too bad!” said the aid.

“Oh, confound it, there’s taps!” said the colonel, tears of vexation in her eyes. “You’ll have to go without me.”

And before they realized it, she had said her good-nights and gone upstairs.

“H’m!” said her uncle, reflectively.

“She was probably tired and sleepy,” said Mrs. Eyre, gently.

“She’ll be out at that stable at five to-morrow,” said the aid.

And, sure enough, Colonel Jerry appeared at the nine-o’clock breakfast the next day radiant from three hours spent in the great horse’s stable.

“Well, colonel,” said her uncle, coming in late, “what do you think of The Lady?”

The plain little face was transformed by a wide smile.

“Oh, Uncle Bob! I never saw such a horse! Baron let me lead her down to water! She’s the most beautiful horse I ever saw!”

“You’ll be disobeying your father,” he said, smiling, “and running off some day on The Lady’s back.” She glanced down at her little sleeve, where the device of a colonel was exquisitely embroidered.

“We’d do a good deal not to have that taken off our sleeve, wouldn’t we?” said her father.

“Most anything,” she answered, with her flashing smile.

Her own little horse was sick, but she and Rose rode the big carriage horses every day, and Jerry did her best to entertain this rather difficult guest. The two children found enough in common to spend the days pleasantly. Rose developed a profound respect for her wild little cousin, and Jerry grew to enjoy Rose’s company--even though Rose could not obey orders, and held bugle-calls in contempt. Both children, as well as all the others on the post, were planning for the Fourth of July. All their money went for fireworks, they shouted the national songs, they cheered the band that practiced nightly before the house.

The third of July broke hot and cloudless. By nine o’clock, the piazza rail burned one’s fingers, and as the hours went by the heat shut down over the earth like a blanket. A heavy haze hung over the meadows, and lines of heat dazzled up from the far, blue mountains. Jerry, coming out from an hour’s enforced practice on her violin, stretched luxuriously in the heat. The post seemed deserted. The heat beat steadily down; there seemed to be no shadow anywhere. Locusts hummed loudly. Jerry knew that her father and uncle had gone to Hayestown to meet the general. They would be back to a late lunch at three. She strolled around to the stable.

Henry, polishing harness, beamed upon her, and wiped his forehead.

“Git me a fur coat an’ build up the fire,” said he, grinning.

“Shame on you!” said the colonel, plunging her bared arms deep into the trough. “Say, Henry, do you know if my aunt and cousin went with dad and Uncle Bob?”

“Why,” said Henry, with a troubled look, “your aunt and cousin went riding! Full an hour ago! Yes, sir, they left about eleven o’clock. They says they was going to get back about half-past two.”

“Idiots!” said the colonel, contemptuously. “Riding! A day like this! Where’d they go?”

“They says they’d go as far as Holly Hill, colonel, and then have their meal at the spring, an’ then go right over Baldy, and home!”

“Crazy! Climbin’ the hill in this heat!” She looked about the clean, wide stable. “What horses did you give ’em?”

Henry looked very uncomfortable.

“I thought you knew, colonel. I give your aunt Sixpence--he’s up to her weight. But Miss Rose says she was to ride _your_ horse.”

The colonel whirled about, her eyes flashing. “Rose said--_my_ horse! You don’t mean _Baby_?”

“That’s what she _says_.”

Jerry turned white.

“But--my goodness! Baby’s _sick_! The vet said she wasn’t to be ridden!”

“I told Miss Rose I didn’t think the horse was up to it,” said Henry, aggrievedly. “I _says_ to ask you.”

“You fool--you!” said the colonel, blazing. She reached for an old cap, and snatched a whip.

“Give me any horse!” she commanded, pulling down her own saddle. “I’ll follow them! They’ll be at the spring. I’ll bring them home through the woods.”